


send me back to where i roam

by othersideofthis (hikaru)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sheets smell like sweat and come and they’re rough against Claude’s skin, but it gets him there, Sidney’s fingers twisting in his hair, his short, blunt nails dragging against his skin, and Claude comes with a smile and a sigh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	send me back to where i roam

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written over the summer, for the “rivalry” prompt over at [getting-good-wood](http://tmblr.co/mIVAk_G-N3q2wVqA5uzxe3Q). Came back across it while putting together my year-end fic list and thought I might as well put it here, too.
> 
> Title from “The Stable Song”, by Gregory Alan Isakov.
> 
> A note, Crosby gets called "Cindy" several times, because that's Giroux's idea of a good chirp. (Giroux is a dick.)

“Evening, Cindy,” Claude says as he glides up to the dot for the face-off.

Sidney’s teeth grind down against his mouthguard. It’s too early in the game to want to clothesline Claude, but, god, does Sidney ever want to throw down with this asshole.

“Claude,” he says, drawing out the  _a_ sound, Americanizing his stupid French-Canadian name. 

And that’s how it starts, every time: Sidney glaring at Claude across the dot, Claude smirking like Sidney’s anger gives him life.

 

* 

It ends the same way every time, too, that same smirk curling across Claude’s lips, his hands curled firmly in Sidney’s hair as Sidney settles on the edge of the bed and mouths wetly at the head of his cock. 

Sidney parts his lips and Claude’s smirk fades away, replaced by open-mouthed wonder as Sidney takes him in, inch by inch.

*

Sidney hurls himself and Claude into the boards, allegedly to strip him of the puck, but the elbow to the kidneys and the stick to the gut were probably part of Sidney’s plan, too.

The puck pops free, back to Kunitz, and before Sidney skates away, he pushes Claude against the glass again, leans in, and says, “gonna fuck that smirk right off your face after we beat you, Claude.”

This time, he says it right, but exaggerates the French pronunciation, drawing out the  _oo_ of the vowels.

Claude doesn’t smile, but Sidney does as he heads to the net.

* 

In Claude’s hotel room, Sidney presses him into the mattress and holds him there, one strong hand planted between his shoulders, the other vice-tight at his hip, holding him steady as Sidney drives into him, over and over again.

Claude’s cursing and panting by the end of it, a raspy mixture of French and English and wordless noises. Sidney’s not any better; he slides one hand up into Claude’s hair and presses his face against the bed, and as he comes, he leans forward and whispers filth into Claude’s ear,  _feels so good, splitting you open_ and  _this is only for me_ and  _next time, you’re going to fucking wear it, going to come right on your fucking face._

The sheets smell like sweat and come and they’re rough against Claude’s skin, but it gets him there, Sidney’s fingers twisting in his hair, his short, blunt nails dragging against his skin, and Claude comes with a smile and a sigh.

*

It’s not like they meant to make this a  _thing_ , something that happens outside of the context of hard-fought games, but Claude is bored as hell, and he should probably steer clear of Ottawa for a while, which is how he winds up tracking down Sidney over the summer.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Sidney says when Claude walks into the gym. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Sidney barely even pauses in his workout. He sinks down into a squat, counts to two, then explodes back up. Then again, and again.

Claude ignores the question. He eyes the weight on the barbell and clucks his tongue. “You can squat more than that, Cindy.”

Sidney shuts his eyes as he bottoms out in his squat. “Fuck you,” he huffs out, then explodes up again, rocking back onto his heels with the motion.

“You really don’t need to work on your ass anymore,” Claude adds, and he’s circling now, smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Fuck you,” Sidney repeats. He racks the bar then steps back, wiping his palms on his shorts. “Why are you here?”

Claude circles the squat rack, just out of Sidney’s reach. He can see the way Sidney’s fingers curl into fists at his sides, and he smiles wider. “Bored,” he offers for explanation. “Thought I’d see if I could get you to blow off your precious schedule for yours truly.”

Sidney stoops to chalk up his hands. “You’re such a fucking liar.”  He rubs his palms together in the bucket, looking up at Claude while he claps off the extra chalk.

“Thought I’d see if I could get you to blow me?” Claude tries again.

Sidney snorts and laughs. “I’m not going on my knees for you, Giroux.”  It’s an arbitrary line for Sidney to draw in the sand, given the number of other ways he’s let Claude use him over the years, but for some reason, that’s the one he always gets stuck on.

Claude scuffs the toe of one shoe against the floor. “Looks like you’re already there; I don’t know what to tell you.” 

Almost immediately, Sidney stands up and crosses the room, back to Claude. “Don’t fucking push your luck.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Claude smiles, only slightly less malicious than usual. 

‘That you are.”

*

Sidney sits on the free-weight bench and blows him right there in the empty weight room, goaded on by Claude’s dirty looks and filthier mouth. 

When they’re done, Claude is desperately trying to wipe the chalked-up prints of Sidney’s hands off of his clothes. 

“You got what you came here for,” Sidney says, before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Claude makes a face, rubbing his fingers over another set of chalk fingerprints. “Sort of.” 

“You should go, then.” Sidney smooths his hair back into place, and Claude hates him for that, too, how except for the way his lips are red and wet and swollen, you would never know what he was up to, while Claude looks like he just lost a fight with an 18-wheeler, and all he did was get his dick sucked.  

Claude shrugs. “Maybe.” He gives up on trying to make his jeans look presentable. “Or maybe I’ll text you with where I’m staying. Just in case.”

“You’re a fucking mess, Giroux,” Sid says. He leans back on the bench, legs spread, and he  _knows_ it’s obscene, the hard line of his dick tenting his shorts. Claude swallows heavily, and one corner of Sidney’s mouth tugs up.

Claude is starting to understand that he has never once won  _anything_ with Sidney, that even when he gets his way, he’s still doing it on Sidney’s terms. 

“Yeah, well.” He nods pointedly at Sidney’s spread legs. “You’re the one walking out of here with that.”

Sidney cocks his head to one side. “Am I?”

*

Sidney does not, in fact, walk out of there like that, hard and needy, Claude sees to that, and if he offers Sidney a gap-toothed smile while Sidney’s cursing his name and his existence, well, no one else needs to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://othersideofthis.tumblr.com/) for more fun.


End file.
